


Sherlock Drabbles

by mormoriarty (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, M/M, Poetry, Prompt Fill, RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/mormoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sebastian Moran is injured.<br/>Warnings for wounds and self-surgery.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. All Stitched Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian Moran is injured.  
> Warnings for wounds and self-surgery.

Blood seeps out between his fingertips from the freshly opened wound, a thick, crimson stream that would leave even the tough Colonel Sebastian Moran feeling a bit lightheaded. And it does.

He reaches the medical supplies and finally finds what he’s looking for. Black, absorbable, stitching thread in the top cabinet, and he palms the small spool in his good hand. He wipes what blood he can off with his corner of his shirt. Seb carefully threads the thin ebony string through the head of a silver needle, and he grits his teeth as he makes the first puncture. A solitary drop of blood oozes out of the new break in his skin, a small and scarlet dot next to the tanned expanse of his arm.

Oh well. _A little prick never hurt anyone,_ he thinks, laughing to himself at the little inadvertent innuendo. It stings and he winces, but he’s right-handed and he moves quickly over his left arm, pulling the thread tight to lace up the two sides of his wound. It’s deep, down nearly to the bone in some areas, top layer of the epidermis in others. He swears softly under his breath, cursing a stupid hidden dagger in a gun fight as he makes the final stitch, weaving the thread from side to side and cutting off the excess.

Sebastian washes his hands and cleans the stitches up, cleansing the wound of any remaining traces of blood. The thick stench of chemical cleaner permeates the summer air, but Seb closes the door of the medical office before it curls too into deeply in his nostrils.


	2. Watch Them Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian can be observant too, you know.

Sebastian Moran loads the rounds into his AW50, set up overlooking the London streets below his shared flat with Jim. The people, oblivious as they are, cross the streets never noticing the lone sniper above.

He watches as a mirror reflects from the window of the building across from him, that's his signal to look down, really look for him. Sebastian spots the man, in his mid-40s with thinning red-gold hair, skiving off work for a little cigarette break. He'll go home to a wife and two young daughters who love him even though they know he's got an affair on the side, a young brunette who could do much better than a 43-year old accountant.

Seb hears a door slam in the flat, and then watches as the man digs around in his coat pockets, peers sideways nervously, and then ducks into an empty alley for a smoke. Sebastian steadies his hands, and then glances over his shoulder for the final reassurance.

"Ready now, boss?" he asks, turning around to face Jim.


	3. Relax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock studies John's hands.

It wasn’t that John minded. He knew that Sherlock didn’t recognize personal boundaries and social niceties. It was just that the scrutiny is enough to make someone uncomfortable, and on a regular basis, go ballistic on the bad days.

Sometimes Sherlock would just look at John, staring at John with his eyes boring into his skull like he was trying to read his flatmate’s mind. Sherlock could probably deduce that John is irritated on the bad days, but maybe he ignored it or just fleetingly deleted the thought.

One morning, he got up and went into the kitchen for coffee and found Sherlock already at the table, staring at his hands. He looked up at John with some strange eyebrow gesture that meant _Now_ , and John grudgingly held his hands out, palms up.

John would say that Sherlock catalogued every detail, the rough edges of every faded scar, the lightened bits of every dry piece of skin, the small callouses that had formed on his fingertips. Sherlock held John’s right hand close to his face, his warm breath ghosting over his knuckles.

“ _Relax_ ,” he whispered.


	4. No Shit, Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock being domestic and watching MasterChef.
> 
> No, I don't think this is actually how the U.K. MasterChef works...

The light coming from a MasterChef episode playing on the telly cast a soft glow upon Sherlock, who had finally slumped over with boredom, onto John, after Jeanette (the serial plant-overfeeder), had added too much pepper to her sadly undercooked chicken filet and got sent home.

John was tired, and home cooks on the telly weren't quite keeping his attention. He looked down at Sherlock, whose head was resting across John's lap on the sofa. Quiet, even breaths came from him and John assumed that he was asleep. On him.

A commercial for some cheap-looking chocolate biscuits came on, and John turned the volume down.

Then, as if his hand had moved of its own accord, he found his fingers drifting towards Sherlock's unruly mop of hair. John ran his fingers through the thick strands, startling with a quiet gasp as a murmur of contentment escaped Sherlock, who nudged his head closer to John's hand. The brunet curls were soft as eiderdown when John petted them, and dark and shadowy against Sherlock's milky skin, which was bathed in the bluish glow of a Tesco advert.

  
He sipped at a mug of hot chocolate which had long grown cold on the coffee-table and silently offered it to Sherlock by waving the cup under his nose. Sherlock sniffed at it, and then stuck out his tongue.

"Cold," he pronounced.

  
"No shit, Sherlock," John chuckled, poking him in the cheek.

Sherlock, for the lack of better words...squealed and flailed, and then rolled ungracefully into a sleepy heap onto the carpet.

“Hgggh,” he heard mumbled, the sound muffled as Sherlock’s head was faced toward the floor.


	5. Accompany Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is acting weird. Well, John thinks he is.

Sherlock wanders the sitting room, hands on his hips, and that damnable purple shirt tight across his chest and shoulders. Not that he notices that John notices. He's in that realm of obliviousness he gets in during the deep-thinking of a new case.

  
The violet silk stretches across his ribs, tightly puckered at the buttonholes and the narrow seams. Why he chooses such...tailored clothing is beyond John, but well, he can certainly pull it off.

During the heat of a major case where all he does is stick nicotine patches on his forearms, he gets so thin, it's almost alarming.

\-----

  
Sometimes he paces back and forth through the flat, sometimes randomly picking up objects and turning them in his hands like they might hold all the answers, might unlock that hidden secret. Sometimes outbursts of sound burst from various rooms. Or there’s the occasional loud crash that comes from the kitchen-turned-laboratory.

\-----

  
"John?" he calls from his bedroom. "Accompany me outside for some fresh air?" Sherlock comes out, all dressed and ready to go.

This is new, Sherlock; being all cheery and buttoning up his suit jacket to head outside. He grabs his coat from the coatrack, slinging it over his shoulders and then wrapping the blue scarf around his milky throat.

  
"Alright, I'm coming," John answers.

Sherlock waits patiently by the door, looking as if he truly desires John’s company- as if they hadn’t been living together for over a year, and like he’s just getting to know John? As if this isn’t the consulting detective that usually tells him to stop breathing if he gets too close, as it will disrupt his thinking?

John dismisses his thoughts, and pulls on his jacket and laces up his shoes, joining him at the door. "Okay, where to?"

  
He walks through as Sherlock holds the door open for him. "Thanks." The door slams shut behind us, and as they head out, Mrs. Hudson waves sunnily at them.

"You hungry? Grab a bite?"

 

Wait, so now Sherlock is actually eating on the case?


	6. The Devil, A Gentleman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Molly/Moriarty poem.

And I thought that

Maybe his lips looked dangerous

His smile a bit too wide

And in his eyes, those predator eyes

A hidden glint of madness inside

His kiss like a live spark on my lips

His touch like ice, but it burns

His voice, low, to make my skin prickle

But he held the door open

Pulled out my chair first

Said me goodnight at the door

Who knew the devil was such a gentleman?


	7. Sleepy!Benny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short fic I wrote a while ago for my friend Paola.

The lock on the front door finally clicked open as Paola twisted her key again. She picked up the paper bag of groceries from where she had placed it down on the front step beside her, and went through the door. She went through to the kitchen, pulling her boots off on the way there so that she wouldn’t track in mud and snow throughout the house. Paola placed the bag on the granite kitchen counter, carefully putting away the frozen items in the refrigerator before turning to go down the hall.

The bedroom door creaked slightly as she pushed it open to peek inside. Benedict was still fast asleep, his chestnut hair fanned out across their linen pillowcases, and he was curled up in a loosely fetal position, his legs bent and his arms clutching the duvet. The sunlight would have streamed in through the giant bay window, but he had closed the curtains and only small rays of light made it through the little breaks in the fabric.

She sat down on her side of the bed and untied her wavy dark brown hair from its loose ponytail, and shook it out between her fingertips. Beside her, Benny was starting to stir, quietly mumbling something as he turned over, away from the light of the window and closer towards her. Paola reached down to stroke his hair; she knew how much he liked that, and she liked it too, the feel of the silky espresso strands twined between her fingertips. Benny moved into her touch, still half-asleep probably, but even in his dreams, he recognized her touch and craved more. His curly hair was adorably mussed and slightly flattened from where he had slept on it, and his rosy lips formed a perfect heart, accentuated by his prominent Cupid’s bow. He needed to shave- there were patches of stubble forming on his upper lip and cheeks, but they only brought more attention to his beautiful high cheekbones.

He murmured something as Paola leaned closer, one blue eye cracking open as he slowly awoke. He smiled, his perfect white teeth gleaming in the morning light. And Paola smiled back, tucking a stray curl behind Benedict’s ear as he yawned, then sat up and stretched.

“Is it morning already?” he asked sleepily, rubbing his hand across his eyes. The duvet fell to reveal a bare chest. She smiled.

“Has been for a few hours already, sleepyhead,” she laughed. “I picked up the groceries before you even woke up.”

“Hmm. Nice of you to let me sleep in, Paola,” he said, leaning up to place a kiss on her lips. Benedict pulled her closer to him, his hands caressing the side of her face as her hands went to his deliciously uncovered chest. Her fingers smoothed the planes of his collarbones, dipped in the hollow of his throat, and traced the line of his broad shoulders. She placed a line of kisses on that long, milky-pale throat, delighting in the muffled sounds that he made as he writhed beneath her. Paola licked a path down to his pectorals, teeth circling a rosy nipple before she bit down. He gasped softly, smiling before pulling her up to him again. They kissed again, a slow sensual slide of tongues accompanied with petting hands and pleasurable touches and Paola would have happily stayed in bed with Benedict all day.


	8. Model!Benny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic for Scarlett.

The camera in front of them flashed, and Scarlett did her best to hold still, perched, legs crossed, on a stool and holding a book while she looked at Benedict while he looked back at her. Benedict; as in Benedict Cumberbatch. She didn’t know how she was staying so calm. “Perfect!” the photographer exclaimed. “Hold that position!” he said over the instrumental music playing in the background. And he snapped some more shots with the book, then some taking it away but leaving the stool. It was October, and they were modeling coats for the next issue of Harper’s Bazaar, and Benedict had his Sherlock hair again, perfectly tousled brunet curls that just screamed “touch me!”

“Now lean down like you’re going to kiss her hand, like an old-fashioned gentleman,” the photographer instructed, motioning to Benedict. He did just that his warm breath huffing softly against her fingers and his silvery green eyes staring into her bright blue ones. He definitely looked every bit the perfect old-fashioned gentleman…well, perhaps not old-fashioned, in a navy blue pea coat that was lovely against his pale skin tone, but a gentleman all the same. The brass buttons gave the coat a military feel, the popped collar highlighted his cheekbones, and the tailored structure gave him strong shoulders. He had on a black cashmere jumper and black trousers underneath. Scarlett herself wore a long-sleeved black lace dress, a dark grey pea coat with toggle buttons, and black ankle boots with little gold buckles.

The photographer wanted some “more candid-looking, natural-looking” shots and let them have free rein for a little while. Scarlett tossed back her brunette hair as she looked out the window at the autumnal scene outside. She turned to Benedict, who held out his hand with a small smile and pulled her up to her feet. She stretched her legs and saw that his other hand was clutched nervously at his mouth. Suppressing a giggle, she decided to place her hand on his shoulder like he was going to lead her in a dance. Benedict took the cue and spun her around, somehow managing to dance to this music that certainly wasn’t meant to be danced to. They both laughed as he dipped her back in time to a swell in the music. “Arrival of the Birds,” he whispered in her ear, and she was lost for a moment, not sure what he was talking about. “The song,” he clarified. “Arrival of the Birds.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said. He smiled again, and they looked at each other, blue eyes meeting blue again. The photographer didn’t intrude and so they stayed in their little world, dancing and laughing and smiling at each other in the studio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of the pic above.  
> Yeah, yeah, I know. Arrival of the Birds isn't really a dance song.


End file.
